Random scribblings -- poems, song lyrics, novel excerpts, maybe a short story a time or two, possibly even a drawing once in a while, an occasional rant -- from the last 25 years or so, with no claim made for their merit or value, simply a demonstration of their existence.

The same in spring as in December
Silence down in the dirt and leaves
Something rotting beneath the eaves
Progress brings new disease
Where would the rats be without the fleas?
Black dog out there, prowling around for me
Next time we meet, will be number three
Kill a crow
Change the season
But when you kill that crow

A perfect world might be so imperfect
You might not want to live in it at all
It would be harder to get rich or stay poor
People would still die too soon, for the worst reasons,
and it would rain too much
In the cities and not enough on the plains
Love would not aways last, and the night would be long
When sleep would not come, and short when we rested
Children would laugh too little and cry too loud
Some would be sacrifice to our distractions
Music would be as dear to us as dreams
Ghosts would hold the lonesome from their friends
Wildflowers would hug the roadsides without choking
Orphans would find solace in the arms of strangers
The prisons would be full, and the people would be free
No one would know the names of the rulers
Day would follow the night, and darkness the dawn
Wind would drive dry leaves skittering through the alleyway
Our imagination would be insufficient
Clocks and days would be no measure
The desert would desire snow and a rose the sunshine
Mercy would be less in evidence than sacrifice
Justice less wanted than compassion
And order more highly regarded tha chaos
In the howling wilderness would bloom a garden
Until the dust and beasts again overtake it
Most of the news would still be bad
And most of the people would still be glad
All this would be true of a perfect world
To remind us of what a rare thing it is